One, Two
by elliemars
Summary: A set of four short Seifer/Zell ficlets inspired by songs.


Deep Red Bells / word count: 435

He asked Zell once if he could hear it. It was late; they'd been up for hours and hours marathoning cheesy action flicks and he'd already been getting drowsy halfway through the fourth, but he fought his way through the fifth just to keep Zell from teasing him and calling him a lamer. It was as he was drifting off on the sofa while Zell gathered up his DVDs, trying to make some sense of the mess they'd both made earlier while fighting over titles, that he heard the bells; as loud and clear as if they'd rung beside him, echoing once with an almost physical reverberation in his head and then vanishing into the mist of the half-dream he'd slipped into. When he sat up on the sofa, Zell was watching him with a funny look.

"Don't you ever hear that?" Seifer asked, his heart pounding a rapid drum. More than a sound: he could almost feel the chill on his skin and smell the damp dankness of stone. Almost.

"I didn't hear anything."

"Just now. And other times," he said, trying not to sound too crazy, because he was sure he looked pretty crazy. Zell's eyes narrowed, and he frowned, looking concerned. "It's... it's not when I'm awake. But it's not a dream."

"What do you hear?" Zell asked gently.

Seifer tried to think. He closed his eyes, but doing so only brought with it an image, a flood of memories, mute but still potent. He looked down at Zell, who was kneeling next to the sofa, utterly quiet; the only sound in the room was that of Seifer's quickened breathing.

"Something," he said, but he couldn't find the words to describe it. "A ringing. Like bells. But... not," he finished softly. But even that wasn't right. His memory was shrouded in silence, as if the very air stifled anything that dared to tread. No bells, only footsteps. The quiet breath of laughter.

Zell smiled up at him, and Seifer realized he was clutching the other man's hand like he wanted to break it. "I didn't hear nothin'," Zell said in that uncharacteristically calm voice that Seifer always found reassuring. He gave Seifer's hand a little squeeze. "No bells. Just a dream, babe."

"Guess so," Seifer mumbled, and he let Zell drag him to bed. He wouldn't hear it again tonight, sleeping next to Zell. And maybe when he woke up in the morning, he'd forget that the warm body next to him in that tiny bed, smiling at him and teasing him and loving him, was what was really a dream. 

* * *

Down It Goes / word count: 416

"You don't know how much I'd just love to beat you up right now," Zell says coolly, staring down at Seifer, sitting against a brick wall in the darkness of the alley behind the pub. Seifer looks pointedly from Zell's cocked fists, wet with his blood, to the splintered piece of two-by-four laying on the ground nearby that Zell had just broken across his ribcage, and he wipes the cut above his left eye with the back of his hand, only temporarily slowing the flow of blood from the gash.

"Think you already accomplished that quite well, but thanks for the sentiment," he says in response, spitting blood onto the cement. He's pretty sure his ribs aren't broken, but he's not going anywhere for a while, so if Zell's serious about beating him up, he's in trouble. But a moment later, Zell cocks a smile, giving his head a little shake and looking far too smug for Seifer's taste.

"You don't let me finish," the martial artist says, crouching down in front of Seifer. He looks Seifer up and down as if doing a mental inventory, and his grin morphs into a full-on smirk. Seifer wonders whether he's inwardly calculating how many bones he can break without killing him or just deciding that it doesn't matter. Not that it does. The war aside, Seifer's done quite enough to Zell in his short lifetime to warrant the other man being quite justified in wanting to put some serious hurt on him. And the look on his face says he does, he really does.

"You don't know how much I'd love to beat you up right now," Zell repeats, looking way too casual, and wiping the blood from his hands with the hem of his well-fitting tee-shirt. "But," he adds, pausing for emphasis, "I don't want you to be out of commission when I fuck you, so I'm holding back for now. I'll give you the rest of it later."

That cocky little smile that Zell has on his face, that grin that Seifer has seen a million times before - before and after and during fights, crooked and dripping blood - suddenly goes straight to Seifer's cock, and the gleam in Zell's eyes says that he knows it. "You got five minutes to catch your breath," Zell declares, flicking his tongue out over his lower lip just quickly enough to make Seifer pray to god that the next five minutes go by fast enough. 

* * *

The Tame and The Wild / word count: 487

"Blonde or brunette?"

"Brunette," Seifer answered.

"Okay. Short or tall?"

"Hm... tall," he said.

Selphie scribbled in her magazine, scratching her chin with the cap end of her glittery blue pen. "Okay," she said again, reading down the page and marking it with a flourish. "What qualities do you prefer in a girl?"

"What?" Seifer scoffed, looking round at her. She made a face at him, clearly and inexplicably surprised that he'd only half been paying attention to her questions.

"For instance: do you like when a girl is outspoken, or more reserved?"

He pretended to think about it, and tried not to roll his eyes. "Reserved," he finally answered.

"How about energetic or sedate?"

"Sedate."

"Do you like a girl who's hot and passionate, or cool and calm?"

"Cool and calm," Seifer said, his gaze drifting across the cafeteria again. At the sound of Selphie's triumphant laughter, he looked round. She held up the magazine to show him the results of the quiz.

"According to this," she explained, pointing with her pen to the picture in the bottom corner of the page, "out of the three of us, Quistis is just your type. Although she's not brunette."

Seifer merely shrugged. He couldn't possibly have cared less, but the more he cooperated, the faster Selphie would leave him alone. "It's funny!" she exclaimed next, giving a little giggle as if for emphasis. "Considering that you and Rinoa used to _date_, who'd think Quisty's actually more your type?!"

Neither Quistis nor Rinoa, nor Selphie, for that matter, were at all Seifer's type, but telling her that wouldn't accomplish anything; neither did he put much stock in silly compatibility quizzes garnered from magazines marketed to teenage girls. Selphie was a few years past being a teenage girl - in age, at least - but she still couldn't help falling prey to anything that had her picture on the cover, which meant that every few months Seifer, and every other male within Selphie's line of vision, had to suffer through her silly matchmaking girlishness.

To tell the truth, Seifer didn't mind _that_ much. At least it threw her off the scent.

She chattered for a moment more and then bounded off, leaving Seifer to finish what he'd been doing before she arrived: undressing Zell with his eyes from across the room. Squall and Irvine being the pretty boys that they were, Zell didn't tend to feature in the media as much as he might, being one of the six most famous people in the world, but Seifer was quite okay with that; he didn't need the rest of the world gawking at topless photos of his boyfriend or analyzing Zell's every move and deciding that it was odd that he hadn't had a girlfriend in three years. Zell was - mostly - all his, and that was quite how Seifer preferred it.

* * *

One, Two / word count: 666

By the time they meet again, Seifer can tell that Zell has forgotten.

"Long time no see, asshole."

It's clear by the look on his face, the lack of amusement. There's recognition, but nothing more. No sparkle. That tight little grin on Zell's face is for fighting and nothing more. "Nice to see you too, chicken-wuss. Miss me?"

"Yeah, like you're gonna bait me. I been waitin' a long time to see your ass again, Almasy."

Seifer doesn't reply and waits to see if Zell will advance. The street is dark and empty and if it were five years ago, he'd drag Zell by his shirt into some dark little niche and fuck him senseless, just to prove he still could. As things stand now, he'd probably just get his face rearranged for attempting it. Five years and a handful of GFs have helped Zell to forget how hard he used to be for Seifer's dick, nights spent together in the dark wilderness gloom of the training center or the back of someone's car in the garage, hoping no one would stumble upon them, half-liking the thrill.

"Well, if that's all," Seifer says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Zell, still at a distance on the other side of the sidewalk, gives him a dirty look.

"No that ain't all," he snarls. His body jerks forward, as though he wants to move but he stops himself. It's a strange, awkward motion, and he looks as confused by it as Seifer is.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. Zell doesn't seem to know how to answer, looking unsure, and Seifer tries really hard not to feel hopeful. Clearly Zell came here to beat the shit out of him, but something is stopping him; Seifer wants to believe that that something has to do with some memory, some shadow of the feelings Zell used to have for him lingering in the back of his mind somewhere. He doesn't know if he has the strength.

"I heard they let you out," Zell starts, and then trails off uncertainly. Seifer suddenly smiles, the unfamiliar sensation of relief flooding him, warm and heavy. He takes a few steps toward Zell, who flinches backward, but still doesn't move. Only when he is nearly upon him does Zell start to turn, as if to run, but Seifer catches him by the wrist and he doesn't make any sort of struggle to free himself.

"What are you doing?" Zell growls. He raises his free hand and makes a fist, but Seifer isn't worried about getting hit anymore. He's taken more than his share of beatings from the other man over the years, but in any case, he doesn't expect Zell to hit him, even if the martial artist looks like he desperately wants to. He leans in close to Zell, his face inches away, and he doesn't miss the way Zell's gaze flits down to his lips and then up again.

He grins, which seems to make Zell uneasy. There's something still in there.

"Have a drink with me, chicken," Seifer proposes. Zell yanks his arm out of Seifer's grasp, and takes a few unsteady steps backward, sneering.

"Why would I wanna drink with you?"

Seifer shrugs, as if it doesn't really matter, enjoying Zell's obvious bemusement at the peculiar direction the conversation is taking. Zell may not remember what they had, the trysts, years of sneaking around and playacting, pretending to hate each other, it getting harder and harder over time. But there's something still in there; Seifer can see it in the way Zell moves, the way his body is conditioned to want Seifer's, the way he can't keep himself from checking out Seifer's ass as he turns around and leads the way to his favorite dive bar.

"Yeah, I could use a drink," Zell is saying from behind him, making excuses to himself. "I'm definitely gonna beat the shit out of you later, though."

"Whatever you say, chicken." 


End file.
